What Hurts The Most
by morallygreydesi
Summary: Sometimes she isn't sure what hurts more: spending the rest of her life without the man she loves or watching him spend the rest of his life with somebody who doesn't love him. NS one shot. Mentions of NB, CB. Futurefic.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. If I did, then Serenate would've happened a long time ago. Seriously.**

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><p>Sometimes she isn't sure what hurts more: spending the rest of her life without the man she loves or watching him spend the rest of his life with somebody who doesn't love him.<p>

Stepping out of the private jet, her left hand clutched tightly to her Gucci purse and her other, gloved hand clasped tightly in her step brother's, she can't help the slight smile tugging on her lips as she inhales deeply. The air smells fresher, colder, sharper. It's not something anybody would notice on a daily basis, but it hits her like a sharp slap after returning from overseas. Whether it be her warm, lazy afternoons on a quiet, private beach in Spain (those handsome, tall Spanish towel boys were quite fun to convince when it came to rubbing lotion on her back), or her busy nights in high profile clubs in Istanbul, she'd been living out of a suitcase for the past two years. Well, a year, eleven months and three days to be exact but nobody cared so much. Except she did.

"Ready to go or are you going to keep enjoying the view from the hanger?" Chuck asked, impatiently sighing. She turned to him. His suit was crisp as always, a purple cravat peaking from under the thick scarf and collar of his coat. He looked impeccable as always, his slight smirk and his hair curled on his forehead. Anybody who saw him would be left deaf from the obvious way his appearance screamed power, style and sex. But anybody who'd spent those last two years with him would look into his eyes and see the pain, loss and betrayal which was too hard for him to hide from the step sister - slash - childhood friend standing hand in hand with him.

"Let's go. I'm supposed to be, er, meeting Eleanor for the fitting. I don't want to be late. Bl -" she started but noticing his harsh glare, she rethought her words quickly. "She won't want me to be late. I'll take a cab, you can go back to the hotel with the things."

"No need. Nathaniel," he said, not changing his words out of courtesy like she had, and almost reveling in her wince, "has asked me to meet him to finalize his tuxedo. Looks like we're both going to busy as ever, the best friends as always."

"Yep," she said, softly, blinking rapidly as she descended the rest of the way and made her way through immigration and security, before she found herself outside John F. Kennedy, hailing a cab, while Chuck took another one. Neither commented on the underlying words.

The best friends as always.

Step brother and step sister.

The best man and the maid of honor.

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><p>Serena stood in front of the ceramic basin, her pale, golden blonde hair pinned up in an artistic bun, her eyes lined with dark blue eye liner. She'd wanted to leave her hair open, but Blair was leaving her hair open and she couldn't let that clash in anyway. Tucking a loose strand behind her ear and rummaging through her slight clutch for her pale pink lip gloss. Again, she's wanted red, but Blair was going for dark lips and she couldn't let that clash.<p>

She pretends not to notice the door opening and closing behind her. For a fraction of a second, she can hear the strains of the orchestra in the ball room, the reception in full swing and she wants to throw her Jimmy Choo stilettos at the stereo system. Instead she smiles at herself in the mirror and applies a layer of gloss.

She doesn't look at his reflection as his arms gently wrap around her waist, his warmth breath (which she knows smells like peppermint and Marlboro lights) on her neck which sends goosebumps up her skin. She can't, because the moment she sees the dark blonde hair falling in those dark green eyes, she'll crumble anyways and she can't.

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, his fingers grazing her bare shoulders, over her collar bone, over her sternum, teasing the edges of her strapless dress. It's a floaty plum color, with a simple sash around the waist and an empire skirt. Something simple, not loud. Nothing to shout over the extravagant white Vera Wang bride's gown.

"There's central heating," she replies back, in a straight voice, trying to concentrate on the sounds of the party, when the only thing she can really hear is his breathing and her heart pounding against her ribs. "A winter wedding, huh? Right before New Years. Very…" she trails off, unsure of what words to exactly use to describe his wedding. The wedding of the year, of the decade, which now proclaimed her best friends as Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Archibald.

"Cold?" he supplies, placing feather light kisses behind her ear, his one hand going to undo the pins which are holding her hair up. She whirls around to stop him, her eyes firmly planted on his loose bow-tie, his adam's apple bobbing up and down with every nervous swallow.

"No. Metaphorical," she corrects him. "New Year, new beginnings," she says, still not looking at him, yet unable to stop her head from falling forward, resting it against his shoulder. With every breath she can smell his cologne, now mingled with the smell of his natural musky scent from the central heating which slightly higher than needed.

"Resolutions and promises and vows to be broken?" he adds, pulling her back, his fingers under her chin and tipping her head up until her dark blue eyes are clashing against his dark green ones and she's drowning and drowning and drowning in them until the only thing stopping her from falling to the floor is his arms around her. Before she knows it, he's got a worried look in his eyes and he's pushing her back until the bathroom counter is holding her up and his hands are cupping her face. Her lips are trembling and her eyes are stinging and she can't _breathe_ as he looks at her with wonder and sadness and so much love and pain that she isn't sure she can do the whole platonic thing for the rest of her life.

"No…no breaking anything," she says. _Except my heart_, she thinks to herself as she looks him in the eyes, now that she can't look away. "Except my heart?" he whispers, as if he can hear her thoughts and then she can't stop herself from letting out a sob, one which he swallows eagerly with his lips on hers, moving with such sync that you'd think they'd had it planned down to a tee.

"Stop, no," she mumbles uselessly against him, as her purse drops to the floor and he hoists her up on the counter, and it's just like old times, a wedding and broken feelings, her hands running up his chest and his breath coming in gasps and then she can't do anything but do the one thing she doesn't want to as she pushes him away with such force that he staggers back and she falls forward, standing once more.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, shocked at the force with she sent him scrambling. "Serena -"

"No. No. No," she chants, shaking her head and turning around to turn on the water and splash water on her face. Her hands are shaking as she grabs one of the soft hand towels and pats her face with it. "No, we can't do this. I'm not going to let you cheat on Blair, not now. She isn't just some girlfriend you're unsure about. She's your wife now," she reminds him, and the words slice through her but she pretends as if she's being very matter of fact.

He sees right through it, of course.

"Serena, come on. You know I lov-" he starts, his own voice soft and pleading and she shakes her head at him, keeping her arm out just in case he tries to come any closer to her. "Please don't say it, Natie. Don't. I might just not let you go."

"Then don't," he says, taking her outstretched hand and using it as leverage to yank her close until she's pressed against him once more and they're back to square one. "Don't let me go. Let's run away together. You and me, and no Blair anywhere," he whispers, knowing how tempting yet stupid that is because he's barely been married for three hours and he wants out.

"Please, Nate. Go back there. Go back to her. She loves you," she reminds him with a soft kiss to the cheek, her eyes watering and traitor tears rolling down her cheeks. He stares at them run down till her chin, before he kisses them away, making her sigh and making more tears leak out. "No. She loves Chuck. Everybody knows that," he says, softly. A sarcastic smile plays on his face. "Nate and Blair Archibald, neither in love with the other, both in love with somebody who loves them just as much."

"No, you can't -"

"Love you? But I do. I love you. I love you. I love you. And she loves him," he says, almost enjoying her squirm at the words. Sighing, he pushes her back against the counter and takes the hand towel from her, splashing his face with water and patting it dry himself. "There's nothing you can do to change it."

He straightens his tie, which becomes lopsided again and he gives up, running a hand through his hair and moving to the door.

"You told me, if I was out, I was out for good," she whispers, making him pause for a second, his mind going to the fateful day in an inconsequential cafeteria. "You told me that if you wouldn't sit around and wait for me. Then why do you still love me?" she mumbles.

"You told me that if we were meant to be, it would be the right thing to do. Besides, I promised you nothing. I told you that you were out, and you are out," he says, his words slightly scathing. "You're out for good Serena. I kept my word. But I never promised to stop loving you."

"Do you love her?" she whispers, biting her lip hard enough for it to sting and throb against her teeth.

"I did once. I can do it again," he replies.

And for the first time that night she shivers, the heating not enough for her. He notices, and shakes his head in a sorry gesture, unsure if it's pity or an apology or both. "Go get a sweater. Summer was more of your season anyway," he says, before closing the door behind her and she scrambles for the pieces of her heart which he has shattered to the floor.

Sometimes she isn't sure what hurts more: spending the rest of her life without the man she loves or watching him spend the rest of his life with somebody who doesn't love him.

But she knows for certain that the fact that he can spend the rest of his life without the love of his life, without batting an eyelid, will leave the deepest scar of all.


End file.
